Bad Games

18



“We’re still going to dinner I hope?” Patrick asked Amy.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you still freaked out about the finger?”

Amy, who was rifling through random drawers in their bedroom as a means to pacify her mind rather than actually pack, replied, “You’re not?”

Patrick chuckled. “Not in the slightest. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I question whether the damn thing was real.”

Amy turned and left a drawer hanging open. “Huh?”

“Well, we didn’t exactly take it to a lab and get it analyzed, honey. The damn thing was probably a rubber prop or something. Some kid at the bait shop probably slipped it in there as a joke.”

Amy shut the drawer. “It looked real to me.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I see—and you’ve seen how many severed fingers in your lifetime, baby?”

She folded her arms across her chest and squeezed as if trying to hold onto her convictions. “If it was rubber and not…meat, then why did Oscar eat it?”

“Because he’s a dog, baby. When I was growing up our dog used to go into the cat’s litter box and eat its shit for Christ’s sake. Dogs are loyal and obedient but not too terribly bright, especially when it comes to choosing their cuisine.”

Amy looked off past her husband. There was a decent pause before she blinked. “So you think it was a rubber finger then? A stupid prank from a kid?”

To lie or not to lie, Patrick thought. Amy had a good point about the dog eating meat. Dogs will eat anything, but rubber would have likely been chewed up and spat out. Maybe. Still, the rubber finger theory had come to him in a flash, and if he could, he would have literally patted his own back for thinking so quick on his feet. So for the time being, he would nurture that spontaneous gem he’d concocted, convince his wife it was a rubber finger. A harmless prank.

As for him? Just ask the hairs on the back of his neck—the ones he was constantly patting down and giving zero chance to rise up and speak freely. Those hairs felt the finger was real. Very real and very f*cking mysterious. Because if you suspect the damn thing was real, Patrick (and deep down you do), then we must now address the next two obvious questions, regardless of how hard you’re trying to shove them into the back of your mind:

Whose finger was it, and how the HELL did it get inside your bait container? It’s not like the Styrofoam had been packed on an assembly line, where quality control might miss a small rodent, some broken glass, the odd finger…

Did Edgar do it? He would have certainly had enough time to plant the thing when you took Caleb to the bathroom. But hold on, dummy—he had all the time in the world to plant it before you even GOT to the store. So that makes no sense.

The guy with the Penn State hat? How f*cking ironic would THAT be? No. Edgar was there the whole time. I think he would have spoken up if someone put a goddamn finger in our bait container while we were in the bathroom.

But wait…Edgar WAS acting strange when we returned.

No. Stop it, dummy. This is absurd. You don’t have any answers and your paranoia is getting the best of you. Certainly understandable given recent events, yes? Yes. You’re being paranoid.

But there is one thing you do know, isn’t there? You WILL keep sticking with the rubber finger theory, won’t you? You’ll stick to it and make it damn good for Amy’s sake. Solve the mystery on your own time if you want, but for right now, ignorance will be today’s special. In fact, why not take a big serving of what you’ve been feeding Amy? All this crazy shit so far…it has to be nothing but good old-fashioned bad luck, right? HAS to be. Things like this just don’t happen on purpose. No way. So swallow it down and try not to choke, Sherlock.

“I’m certain it was, baby,” he said. He patted the back of his neck, walked towards Amy, kissed her lightly on the lips. “We have a wonderful night ahead of us. Let’s not let a silly thing like this ruin it.”

She hugged him tight. “It was a sick joke?”

He squeezed her back and replied, “It was.”

“Whoever did it should be beaten.”

“They should.”

“We won’t let it ruin our night.”

“We won’t.”

“I feel better,” she said.

“I’m glad.”

She lifted her head off his chest, looked up and kissed him. “I love you.”

“You should.”



* * *



Amy was wearing a white, form-fitting dress that flaunted every curve of her impressive figure. Her long dark hair was still damp from her recent shower and gave off the combined scent of flowers and fruit.

She leaned forward at the waist, her stomach flat against the edge of the sink, applying makeup with a critical eye in the bathroom mirror.

Patrick walked by the bathroom in dark slacks and a white button-down that was neither tucked nor buttoned just yet. He paused when he got a good look at his wife.

“Sweet mother of…” he drooled. He entered the bathroom, stood behind his wife, and wrapped his arms around her waist.

Amy put her eyeliner down and smiled at her husband’s reflection. “You like?” she asked.

“Me love.”

“I’m gonna blow my hair out the way you like,” she smiled.

“Mmmmmm…” Patrick leaned in and kissed her neck. “Perhaps we should skip dinner altogether.”

“What, you didn’t get enough last night?”

“I will never get enough of you.” He dropped down and sunk his teeth into her butt.

She let out a yelp, giggled, turned and punched him in the chest. “Get out of here, I need to get ready.”

As Patrick turned to leave, Carrie and Caleb appeared at the bathroom door. Caleb was holding two flat rocks. He went to hand them to his father but Carrie pushed him aside.

“I can’t find Oscar,” she said.

“Carrie, please don’t push your brother like that,” Patrick said.

Caleb attempted a return shove but Carrie shrugged him off as though he wasn’t there. Her eyes stayed fixed on her father. “He’s been gone since we went fishing. I keep calling for him…”

Probably off somewhere, barfing up the finger he ate this afternoon, Patrick thought.

Amy, who had gone back to attending to her face in the mirror said, “He’ll come back when he’s hungry, honey. You and your brother need to get ready to go to the Mitchell’s.”

Carrie looked down at her attire—a faded Hannah Montana T-shirt and a pair of dirty jeans—then back up at her mother with an odd look. “I am ready.”

Amy kept one eye on the mirror while the other stole a quick glance at her daughter. “Wouldn’t you rather wear something nicer for the Mitchells?”

Carrie looked at her clothes again. “No.”

Patrick stepped out of the bathroom (giving his wife a subtle pat on the bottom as he passed), and approached his son. “Whatcha got there, bud? More rocks for skipping?”

Caleb nodded eagerly and handed them to his father.

“Whoa, take a look at these beauties.”

Caleb beamed.

“Come on,” Patrick said. “Let’s go out to the lake and skip them before your mom and I take you over to the Mitchell’s.”

Father and son raced outside. Amy put the eyeliner down and tilted her torso out the bathroom door. “Don’t get dirty!”